Memories Are Made Of This.

When I was little I used to throw up every Christmas Eve. I would appear, of course, perfectly calm and blasé. I behaved as if it was any other ordinary day. But inside? Oh, Lord. On the inside I was dying.

After all, I’d been watched, all year, by some old fat guy with a beard. He knew when I was sleeping. He knew when I was awake. He knew if I’d been bad or good, for goodness’ sake!

I never knew if I’d been good enough. I’d tried. G-d knows I’d tried but what about that time I wanted the prize out of the cereal box and dumped half the contents behind the couch. I’d attempted not to be wasteful. I’d eaten as much as I could but, after three bowls in a row, I couldn’t see another frosted flake. They had to go. What if the fat man had seen that? Was that enough to black list me?

Santa, to me, was no saint. He was a judger. He made up random rules and punished children willy nilly as he saw fit. He was a jack booted fascist. But I still wanted those presents. Did that make me a collaborator? Oh, Jesus, would I have to name names for that new Connect 4?! What if nothing was enough? What if it turned out to be random and this year was just the year I went on the list for coal?! Oh, the humanity. Finally, around ten or eleven, I’d throw up and be put to bed with a cool cloth on my forehead.

On Christmas morning my mother and aunts would run into the room and jump on my bed screaming, “get up! Santa came ! Presents!” So, I’d think, I made it through another year. Then I’d roll over and go back to sleep.

Later on in the year I’d think, what if there isn’t really a naughty list? What if he’s just trying to wind us all up? Sadly, we’ll never know so we’ll have to stay on our game. Well played, fat man, well played.

People (don't always) Make Me Sad

You. MUST. See. This.

If you aren't laughing like a mad thing until you spew sick within the first five minutes there is something wrong with you and you are, sadly, dead to me. I'll miss you . . . but you're dead to me!

Click below for more info.

http://www.amazon.com/Spaced-Complete/dp/B0019MFY3Q/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=dvd&qid=1217459210&sr=8-1

Three (3) Random Things

1 (one). There is one thing about working in an office I will never get used to - having to pretend interest in other people’s mundane shit. I mean, in retail, I used to just be able to walk away (look! A customer. Gotta’ go. Darn.). Or, working on the phones at GEICO, I could say “oops! I have a call!” There’s no escape in cubicle city. I hear everything from houseplant woes to why people hate paperclips . This, obviously, wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t expected to join in. But, sadly, I am. It is practically required otherwise people start shouting “hey! What about you? Are you paying attention?!” Um, yeah. I got nothin’. I too hate paperclips?

2 (two). On October 11 I may be singing . . . In Maryland . . . In public . . . At a festival. Hu. Weird. I haven’t performed in public in, oh, I don’t know. Yeah, many moons, young ones (Vivienne!). My cousin volunteered me. She’s pimped me out for her own amusement to someone she works with. It’s not definite yet. I have conditions. We’ll see if they’re met.

3 (three). I couldn’t find my glasses for three (3) weeks. This morning I looked in my purse, which I have checked no less than twelve (12) times before, and there they were. A blind person searching for the glasses which allow them to see is a funny bit . . . But not in real life.

Three (3) Things That Made My Week

1. Spending a morning studying the physical signs of various addictions. Because, let me tell ya’, until you’ve been innocently eating a granola bar and a picture of “meth mouth” pops up on your screen, well, kids, you just ain’t lived. Fun, good times! Please, ignore the fact that I screamed, jumped and almost spewed granola across my cubicle, go Google that shit! (don’t.) It’s pretty! (don’t.) Pinky swear! (seriously, just don’t.)

2. Spending two hours at DMV. You meet such great people there! The staff is super friendly. I may send them Christmas cards this year! Also, of course, it’s great for your self-esteem. There’s nothing like being “cat called” by random, dirty (literally) dudes outside of a government agency to really perk a girl up. It’s hot. White hot. Combine that with all the children who’s parents allow them to roam, free range, around the room and it’s a nice third world atmosphere. All they need, to complete the motif, are a few goats and chickens. I, as a tax payer and lover of a theme, am more than willing to carry the extra expense. Again, I love a theme! Which works out well since the DMV photographic equipment always manages to bring out my inner Mexican. Somehow, I wind up with a tan in any picture they take there. Not just any tan either. But a glorious, dirty tan! The kind of tan that can only be achieved by spending years out in the desert, harvesting cactus to make tequila. . . sans sun block . . . or a hat. Combine that with the fact that you’re not allowed to smile and I look like an angry deportee. Ay!

3. The hotness that is me when I leave the gym. Honestly, boys! Hang onto your control! I’m only one girl!

I do, honestly, heart PITAIYO and know that, in the long run, it’s a good thing. However, that being said, after an average class I look like I’ve been dragged, backwards, across the Serengeti. My hair escapes from my head band within the first ten minutes. Within the first twenty my head scarf is sitting forlornly beside my mat and, by the end, my ponytail holder has given up the ghost as well. Therefore, when I walk out my hair is loose and bigger than ever (it doesn’t like it when I try to confine it and gets . . . Angry).

That’s on a regular day. This week my instructor ate cake before class. We suffered for it.* So, in addition to the hair, this week my pale, sensitive, allergy prone skin was bright red. Which would be fine if it was all over but it wasn’t. It was just in two round spots on my cheeks. Picture it, if you will, stark white face, pink cheeks, huge hair, arms that barely work hanging limply at my sides. I looked like a demonic doll.

Again, boys! Give a girl some room to breathe! I know . . . I know, you can’t help yourselves. Totally understandable. Helen of Troy eat your heart out!

*I, it should be noted, did not have cake. It may be silly but if I’m going to be punished for cake consumption I’d like to be the one consuming the cake. I’m wacky like that!

I Wish I Knew How To Quit You . . . .

F gluten-free. F it right in the ear with a crooked . . . well, you get the point.

I'm A Stealer!

I stole this from Erin. I am, yet again, a stealer!

The rules (gotta' have 'em!):

1. Everyone leave a comment with a memory of me. Whether you've known me for a really long time or not long at all, you can add whatever you like! Something, anything!

2. If you continue it on your blog, then I'll come over and add a memory of you! And if you don't have blog, I'll tell my memory in the comments.

“If you are not in fashion, you are nobody.” - Lord Chesterfield

Bessie Mae Fontlow had spent the first fifty-seven years of her life with the kind of self confidence that can only be imparted to a girl growing up in a small Ohio town as the great-granddaughter of the original founding fathers and possessed of a reasonably attractive face and figure, along with a family fortune that was still pretty darn nice. Until that fateful day when Aleksandr Martel opened his little dress shop at 12th and Main. Yes, Bessie could see the handwriting on the wall with her first look in that shop window!

After twenty plus years as the local fashion leader and Junior League Chairwoman, her time of ascendancy in Port Fontlow was about to come to an end. Sure she'd be able to hold on to the reins for a little while longer by utilizing her well known powers of biting sarcasm after church and in the beauty parlor to belittle that upstart Martel. But Bessie was too much of a realist to imagine she'd be able to stave off the rampantly chic for long . . . and too long an Ohioan to think she'd be able to pull off the new look herself.